Pierre's humour was of the quietest, most subterranean kind. He knew that
Macavoy had not an evil hair in his head; that vanity was his greatest
weakness, and that through him there never would have been more
half-breed population. There was a tradition that he had a wife
somewhere--based upon wild words he had once said when under the
influence of bad liquor; but he had roared his accuser the lie when the
thing was imputed to him.

At Fort Ste. Anne Pierre had known an old woman, by name of Kitty Whelan,
whose character was all tatters. She had told him that many years agone
she had had a broth of a lad for a husband; but because of a sharp word
or two across the fire, and the toss of a handful of furniture, he had
left her, and she had seen no more of him. "Tall, like a chimney he was,"
said she, "and a chest like a wall, so broad, and a voice like a
huntsman's horn, though only a b'y, an' no hair an his face; an' little I
know whether he is dead or alive; but dead belike, for he's sure to come
rap agin' somethin' that'd kill him; for he, the darlin', was that aisy
and gentle, he wouldn't pull his fightin' iron till he had death in his
ribs."

Pierre had drawn from her that the name of this man whom she had cajoled
into a marriage (being herself twenty years older), and driven to
deserting her afterwards, was Tim Macavoy. She had married Mr. Whelan on
the assumption that Macavoy was dead. But Mr. Whelan had not the nerve to
desert her, and so he departed this life, very loudly lamented by Mrs.
Whelan, who had changed her name with no right to do so. With his going
her mind dwelt greatly upon the virtues of her mighty vanished Tim: and
ill would it be for Tim if she found him.